Shattered Fears

by Ulff Lehmann

  “Certainly, sir,” she answered. “Follow me.” She led the way to a far door hidden behind a heavy curtain, into a room that reminded him of a bathhouse. Obviously, they were not the only ones ever to enter this tavern in need of a wash. “Want to take a bath?” the lass asked. She must have seen his discomfort—from the way Gwen was shifting she must have felt ill at ease as well—and added, “We have tubs separated from each other.”

  Drangar’s sigh of relief was almost as loud as Gwen’s. He looked at the girl who shrugged as if it was all the same to her, and said, “That would be great.” He dared not contemplate their odor.

  “Please wait,” the girl said and hurried out once more.

  Next to him, Gwen whistled softly. “I’ll be damned. Look at the floor,” she said.

  He did, and immediately understood the cause of her surprise. The floor was solid stone, yet their feet didn’t freeze. In fact, they were comfortably warm. He went back to the door and peeked out into the taproom. It sported the same stone floor.

  “How do they do that?” Gwen asked from behind.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind a memory stirred to life. It was one of those things he had tried to banish from his head, something he had learned as a child. The Eye of Traksor also had floors that were warm in the winter, and as… Darlontor had once explained, men who had known the elven way of building had designed the entire keep. Fires burned below, the heated air running through clay pipes underneath the floor, thus warming the stones. One winter, when he was maybe ten, he had gone exploring the depths of the Eye, and had stumbled into the scalding hot heating-room. There had been a handful of workers down there, stripped to their loincloths, feeding wood into ovens twice as wide as a man was tall. He had rarely seen such architecture outside of Kalduuhn. That the founder of this inn had gone to the lengths of building his livelihood this way impressed him.

  “Elven design,” he said.

  “You think so?” She was still squatting, inspecting the almost seamless stone floor.

  “Aye; must’ve cost a fortune to build, neither the Palace nor Cahill Manor has such a thing.”

  Gwen looked up at him, obviously astonished. He saw she wanted to ask something when the serving girl re-entered, carrying soaps and blankets. “Sorry, had to throw some mint-leaves on the fire,” she said meekly, obviously embarrassed by mentioning the need of masking their smell.

  “We have to apologize,” Gwen said.

  “Long road you traveled?” the girl asked, putting down the pile on one of the stools lining the wall. She then went and pulled away two curtains Drangar had thought were covering windows. Instead he saw two chambers of equal size beyond, each containing nothing more than a stone bathtub and a pair of spigots embedded into the wall.

  “Yes,” he said absentmindedly, wondering if the interior had been removed from somewhere and rebuilt here. “Bloody long road.” Gwen snorted.

  “Left’s hot, right’s cold,” the lass explained. “Pull the plug when you’re done.”

  Almost as an afterthought, Drangar remembered one important detail. “How much will this cost?” His purse held some money, but this luxury certainly would not come cheap.

  The girl faced him, frowning in obvious consternation.

  Gwen intervened, saying, “Money is, of course, not an issue.” She briefly glared at him, and then added, “Money is never an issue.”

  “Enjoy your baths,” the lass said, and left.

  “We would not have come here were we unable to pay,” Gwen said, her voice almost as stern as it had been when she lectured him before. “This place caters to the rich, and money with them is never an issue.”

  “But…”

  “You have some plunder, right?” she interrupted him. He shook his head, appalled at the thought of taking money from the torn corpses. Plunder was a warrior’s reward, true, and as mercenary he had taken his share from the dead. But the thought of taking anything from the Fiend’s victims had been too much for him to bear.

  “I have a few…”

  “No worries; I killed some rich bugger, so we do have enough. Provided they accept Eagles that is. Oh, don’t look at me like that. There’s no love lost between most Chanastardhian nobility and me. My da is a pirate at heart as much as my great-grandda was one, and how we got our position was most likely through bribes.” He realized he hardly knew anything about her, and all this time she had listened to his woes. In a way he was glad she spoke of herself now. “Landed gentry, indeed,” she spat. “So, I figured, if I am to desert, I might as well bugger the bastards good. No quarter, no ransom, other than what they carry in their pockets.” She grinned savagely, and for a moment Drangar could picture her on a galley, captaining the wolves of the sea. “Now,” she said sternly, “get behind that wall.” She pointed to the other partition, and added, “No peeking.” By the twinkle in her eyes, he knew she was serious but also enjoyed his company. To reinforce her statement, she pulled the curtain shut behind her.

  Not that he had considered doing anything, being near her was enough. Her presence had calmed the Fiend so much, the monster rarely made itself heard. He went to his compartment, undressed, and began fiddling with the spigots. Operating the damn things was easy; getting the bathwater to an agreeable temperature was not. From the hissed curses he could tell Gwen faced the same problem. Two years of washing in a spring had made his body sensitive; the lukewarm water felt like boiling oil.

  The relaxed sigh coming from the other side told him Gwen was finally settled in the tub. Years ago, he would have enjoyed soaking in a good bath; now things were different. Drangar immediately went to business. He realized quickly that scrubbing his body whilst sitting was uncomfortable at best, so he stood and lathered himself in soap. The beginnings of a new beard were sprouting on his chin. No steady, continuous, all covering growth, but tufts of hair scattered all over the place. His scalp wasn’t in much better shape. How could she like him? He was a caricature of a man, and without a mirror he imagined himself looking more like cabbage with patches of mildew growing haphazardly. Looking about he discovered a cupboard and mirror next to the curtain. Another lathering, and then he left the tub, and headed for the piece of furniture.

  On his way there, he wrapped himself in a towel, took one of the stools, and finally settled in front of the looking glass. Even in the gentle illumination he could tell that the image of the cabbage hadn’t been so far off. There were patches of skin still bare, while other spots already showed traces of his original hair color. No, not cabbage, he decided, rather a child’s doll that had seen one too many games of tug. The belt knife was with the rest of his gear, in the stable; he had refrained from sharpening any blade since the caves, and now when he needed a shave, his knife was not around. Drangar was about to ask Gwen, when another thought crossed his mind. If this place was indeed as elitist as it appeared to be, the mirror was not only there to provide vain people with a place to brush their hair.

  A moment later he held a razor in his hand. It had been ages since he had held one of these, the buggers always made him uncomfortable. Why this was so, he had no idea; the blade certainly was as sharp as his knife. Rummaging about the cupboard, he discovered a bowl, a massive brush and block of soap. For so many years he had shaved without soap, and he wouldn’t change now.

  He returned to the cooling bathtub, remembered the lass’s remark about a plug, and knelt, his hands searching for the stopper. As the water gurgled away, he briefly contemplated filling the bowl with the slush, but decided against it. If he could help it, Gwen would never see that utterly raw side of him. Instead, he filled the bowl with cold water from the spigot and headed back to the mirror.

  Shaving was much simpler and faster with half his face still looking like a newborn’s rear, although the scraping of the blade irritated his skin so much, he looked flushed without having exerted himself. Finished, Drangar regarded himself, wondering if he should also get rid of the hair on his scalp.

  He was just
about to guide the razor across his temple—a rather lonely patch of hair was growing there—when he heard Gwen’s voice. “You know, just leave it be, won’t be that bald for long, I reckon. Give it some time to heal.”

  Her head was poking out from behind the curtain, and by the look of it, she had been standing there for a while. Face and hair were already somewhat dry, and from her expression she liked what she saw, despite his patchy hair. “And if it doesn’t?” he asked, feeling rather more self-conscious than he had in years.

  “Then you can always get a wig.” When he glared at her, she stuck out her tongue and retreated behind the curtain, laughing.

  “Wig, my ass!” he growled.

  “I could picture you as a blonde.” He snorted. A blonde, yeah, right! “Where will you live?” Gwen asked, her voice losing all humor, sounding far more serious.

  “Dunno. Thought about going to my house.” Truth was, the thought had come before, but he had always been afraid to go because of the memories connected to the place. “Not sure that is such a wise idea, though.” When Gwen remained silent, he spoke on. “The house is still mine, but why should I go there?”

  “Because you also were at her grave, making your feelings known to her,” she said.

  “I told you, not her. She’s…”

  “I know,” Gwen interrupted. “I know. But do you think I asked you to tell me about her just so that I would know? No woman enjoys hearing about her predecessor; trust me. So why did I ask you? There at the graveyard? I figured you never told her how much she really meant to you, saying ‘I love you’ is easy. Saying you know someone and care for someone very deeply, that is hard.”

  “So, you think I should go?”

  “I think,” she said, her hand snaking out from behind the curtain, searching, “you need to decide. I am not your decision-maker; that honor goes solely to you. Pass me a towel, will you?”

  CHAPTER 26

  Aside from the progression of souls when they died, Rhea knew little of spirits. She had already consulted a Deathmask, and Jainagath’s priest had yielded little extra knowledge. “Yes,” he had said, “some souls remain, evading the god at the time of dying.” Not that this answered why Cat’s spirit had come to her. Neither did it explain why the spirit had chosen her to guard her son.

  For two days, her search for answers had been cut down to a bare minimum. Aside from the Deathmask, she had been unable to look deeper into the matter; Nerran’s erratic mood swings, his constant drinking and general disarray had made her into the practical leader of the Riders, and—she hated the thought—she felt obligated to wet-nurse Nerran. The Paladin was in pieces; the loss of so many friends, while hard on all survivors had struck him strongest. It saddened her to see the confident man stumble about the Palace, his mourning whites getting filthier with each sobbing breath. Regret, another part of grieving, seemed to weigh Nerran down, and he lamented his failures to whomever he met. She could pull him out of a brawl with imaginary foes one moment, and he would stagger off to find more booze the next. Just now she contemplated sending him to the dungeons and locking him up.

  “And you knows wut?” slurred the Paladin to a servant who visibly struggled not to turn away. “She’s got that nose that crinkles whenever she’s pissed off about something. Should’ve seen the guys she whacked when they pissed her off.” He was talking about Gail. “And that bitch had to drive the life outta her. Would’ve lived she would.” The servant tried to distance himself from Nerran, but the Paladin had him by the shoulder. “Finest Caretaker I ever knew, and she had no flatulence about her. Not like that cocksucker Danaissan.”

  How many times had she dragged him away from annoying servants and townsfolk? And it had only been two days. It seemed Nerran had decided to ignore sleep. That his body was handling this extreme punishment of booze and tears was a miracle.

  “My Lord Nerran,” the concerned man pleaded, “I need to get back to my duties.”

  “Yer a servant, aye, lad? Then go’n serve me some more mead,” Nerran slurred, straightened, and burped. Saliva bubbled from his lips and mixed with the liquid already gathered in his beard and tunic.

  It was best, Rhea thought, to beat him senseless and wait until he regained some of his dignity. Then, deciding this might actually be in everyone’s best interest, she took her sheathed sword from her belt. The servant caught her intent, and moved himself and Nerran into position for her to strike.

  The Paladin thudded to the floor like a sack of grain. “Thank you, milady,” the servant said.

  “Don’t thank me just yet,” she said. “You’re going to help me get him out of the way.”

  Admittedly, Nerran, like every Rider, was in splendid shape, yet he was a bulky man, and it took the help of two more retainers, off-duty guards, to carry him to a cell. Rhea had decided he shouldn’t burden anyone by vomiting on carpets or quilts. The dungeons already smelled like piss and vomit, so Nerran’s being ill would hardly add to the place’s sewer stench. “Leave the door unlocked,” she ordered the head Warden when they returned to the guardroom.

  Finally she had the chance to consult with Coimharrin, who might not be that well versed in spirit-lore, but had known Amhlaidh and Caitrin Ralchanh and might be able to explain what the Scales was going on.

  Upholder Coimharrin was busy. In Lliania’s Court he was passing judgment on various looters and other unseemly elements that had tried to use the battle’s aftermath to fatten their pockets. Rhea entered as her colleague ordered someone hanged. As was his habit, something she had learned to loathe and love at one time or another, he played the scatterbrained fool, luring people into traps of their own making. The next culprit that a guard brought in explained his actions in the most eloquent manner while Coimharrin fiddled with a string that was sticking out from his linen tunic.

  “Indeed, your honor, I was at the place, but my intent was not to steal; I wanted to help.”

  “Huh? What?” Coimharrin said absentmindedly.

  “I wanted to help the survivors of said house.”

  “Which house was that?” Now the Upholder scanned his desk for something. Rhea reckoned it to be a knife.

  “The house in question. The place where these brutes arrested me!” the accused snarled.

  “Oh, right. Anyone got a knife? This bugger is bugging me.” Coimharrin held up his sleeve. His daughter helped him out. Satisfied, he said, “Thanks, dear. Now then, you say you wanted to help the poor souls in that house, right?”

  “Yes! There were people trapped and I wanted to help!”

  “Who was trapped?”

  “The owner and his family!”

  “When were you arrested?”

  “This morn.”

  “Oh, right, says so right here.” He fiddled with a paper lying in front of him.

  “So, I came to help.”

  “Whom? Names please.” Now Coimharrin began to clean his fingernails.

  “I don’t know, I heard them yelling!” The thief, Rhea had no doubt about what he really was, played innocent, and had to be very naïve and uninformed not to know the Upholder’s tactics. None of the good criminals ever got caught, or, if they did, they knew better than to join Coimharrin in his game of subterfuge. They admitted their guilt, paid a hefty fine, and were then let go. Normally these kinds of people did not get caught with their hands dirty of one crime or another; although—Lliania knew—their hands were usually awash in dirt and blood. This fellow seemed blissfully unaware of whom he was trying to con, and she enjoyed seeing him twitch on the line, with Coimharrin’s hook already firmly embedded.

  “So, let me get this straight: you heard survivors in Blaithan’s Jewelry four days after the place had been hit by a slingthrower-stone? Right?” The accused nodded, somewhat dumbfounded. “Right, then. How many did you rescue?”

  “None, your honor. I was interrupted.”

  “Yes, yes. Can I have some more tea, dear?” He took the refilled mug from his daughter’s hands, leaned back, and sippe
d. “Needs more honey.” Turning back to the out-of-luck thief, he said, “So, you rescued none. How can you explain the golden torque and the rings in your pocket?”

  “I had bought them for my wife.”

  “From Blaithan’s?”

  “I… err… aye.”

  “Would the honorable Etgal Blaithan step forward please?” Rhea knew Coimharrin enjoyed the look of panic on the thief’s face as much as she did. A middle-aged man, stooped from hours and hours of hunching over his work, his little remaining hair grey, stood and approached the dais. “Warden, please show him the items. Take your time and inspect them, dear sir. Since you’re dead I guess you have all the time in the world.”

  The audience, there was always an audience when Coimharrin held court, chuckled, and she caught herself smirking as well. When things had quieted down, her fellow priest asked, “Now then, did you create these items for…” He turned to the culprit. “What’s your name again?” Rhea knew he was playing for laughs. The audience response was as expected.

  “Tannan, sir. Tannan of Ondalan.”

  “Hard times, eh, what with your home in ruins, eh? So, did you make them for this young man?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Son, if you want to rob a place and claim you wanted to rescue inhabitants, just make sure they aren’t with relatives in a different part of town. Even if that’s not enough.” He pointed at the jewelry. “An attempted alibi is something that’s pretty pointless when any possible survivor would have died from the cold already, and well, you know, having the plundered goods in your pockets and being caught waist high in the ruins.” He gave a sigh. “Why do I even bother? Tannan, can you fight?”

  The man’s eyes grew wide. “No, sir.”

  “Then you’ll learn. You are to serve Dunthiochagh.” He surprised Rhea with the sentence. Normally, thieves were given one choice: left or right hand, if they were lucky. If criminals were treated this leniently, how would others learn a lesson? Politics again interfered with justice, and some claimed this was a necessary evil, but to her, seeing Coimharrin play to the Baron’s tune was something right out of her nightmares.